


Abductive Reasoning

by sable_tyger (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-16
Updated: 2011-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-28 07:36:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/sable_tyger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The discovery of Harry and Ron's relationship is the last straw for Hermione, who's always felt like an outsider even around her best friends. She decides it's time she finds someone else to spend time with. <em>Hermione/Luna, background Harry/Ron</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Abductive Reasoning

The rain is in Hermione’s eyes and her fingers have frozen to the lapel of her drenched coat, but she walks on, bent double against the punishing wind as she sloshes through London’s streets. The warming charm she’d cast before setting out seems to be fading, because her ears and nose hurt from the cold, but she doesn’t turn on the spot and simply Apparate to her destination. She’s never just Apparated into Harry and Ron’s place before.

She shakes water off her feet, frowning at her ruined boots. She _hasn’t_ ever Apparated to Harry and Ron’s place without giving notice—she’s never realized that before. Not really. (Maybe she has.) But it’s always been like this with her, Harry, and Ron. She’s always been something of an outsider even around the two of them. They’ve been best friends since they were eleven, but Harry and Ron are the immovable center of the tripartite friendship. Sometimes Hermione thinks she’s just a satellite that’s been sucked into their orbit. Harry and Ron are good friends—her best friends—but her friendship with them can never rival their friendship with each other, and Hermione has always known it even if they don’t. That time they hadn’t been speaking to her in their third year—and hadn’t cared to until Hagrid had told them how badly she’d been handling the situation—is proof of that. They’ve always been fine without her, but when it’s just her and Harry or her and Ron it feels, undeniably, as if something irreplaceable is _missing_.

It hurts, sometimes, to think of it, especially on days like these when the sky is tearing itself to pieces above her and she can’t do a single damn thing about it, because Apparating into your best mates’ place without notice might be something that most people do, but it’s never been something that Hermione does. And so she knocks on their apartment door and rubs her hands together, trying to warm them with her breath as she stomps the icy water off her feet, waiting for the door charm to let her in. The spell eventually recognizes her and lets her pass.

“Harry?” she calls as she unwinds her scarf from around her neck. It’s absolutely soaked. “Ron?”

There’s no answer, and she deliberates in the entryway for a moment. Should she just walk in? Will Harry and Ron mind? (Is this a question that supposed best friends should even _ask?)_

She makes up her mind, tossing away her sodden scarf and stomping up the stairs to the living room. Water squelches between her toes and runs in rivulets down the steps.

“Harry, Ron, for the last time, when someone knocks at your door you really should go _answer_ it instead of leaving them standing on the front steps for—”

She stops dead at the sight that greets her when she walks into the living room. Harry and Ron are stretched across the tattered couch, their hands roaming, touching, teasing, their tongues down each other’s throats. Harry is moaning obscenely, his fingertips plucking at the hem of Ron’s shirt, and Ron is _grinning_ , that little bastard, and gasping and whispering things he’d certainly never said when he’d been dating Hermione.

The door slams shut behind her—she doesn’t even remember pushing it closed—and Harry and Ron both look up. When they see Hermione standing there, Ron’s mouth falls open, and Harry turns bright pink. She stares at them, incapable of doing anything else. They stare at her. She stares at them staring at her.

Harry finally ventures to speak. “Hermione—”

“Oh, for fuck’s _sake_ ,” she says, and she Disapparates.

\---

Hermione presses her forehead to the rim of her mug, closing her eyes tightly. She doesn’t approve of drinking, so there’s nothing more than tea in her mug, but she almost wishes it were something else. She lifts the mug to her lips and take two deep draughts, enjoying the way the hot brew makes her throat burn.

She wonders if Ginny is around. Lately, Ginny has been spending more time than usual with Neville and Luna and less than usual with Hermione. Not that this is a surprise—Neville, Luna, and Ginny had grown close the year Voldemort had been running Hogwarts. Inseparable, really. They’re rarely apart these days.

Hermione scowls into her cup. How is it that those three can be such good friends whereas she has never been as close to Ron or Harry as they are to each other?

She sits there at her kitchen table ( _she_ rooms alone, unlike Harry and Ron) for a long while, swilling the contents of her cup and gazing at the opposite wall, thinking. She does a lot of thinking. Maybe that’s the problem—she spends all her goddamn time thinking instead of being actual _friends_ with somebody.

She swills the cup again, looks into it. Maybe there’s something else to the friendship between Neville, Luna, and Ginny—maybe one of them is like Hermione, and doesn’t quite fit in. If that’s true—well, there’s one sure way to find out.

\---

“Hey, Ginny,” Hermione says the next time she sees her, “are you busy tonight?” She already knows the answer, but that isn’t why she’s asking.

“Oh! Sorry, Hermione—Neville and I have plans. You could come along, too, if you’d like, it wouldn’t be a problem—” Ginny looks genuinely distressed, and Hermione decides to let her off easy.

“Er, no,” she says. “That’s all right, Ginny. You and Neville have fun.”

 _So is it Luna, then?_ Hermione wonders later. It would make sense. She’s suspected this outcome, actually. Luna had spent most of her sixth year locked in Malfoy Manor, and she’d always unsettled Neville to some extent (though less as time has gone by). But Neville and Ginny are going out that night, and Luna isn’t going to be with them. If Hermione wants to make a better friend, then this might be her best option.

But—it’s _Luna_ , and Hermione wonders if she can really do this after all.

\---

Harry and Ron come by her place the next day to explain themselves. Hermione considers not answering the door when they arrive, but this idea is so childish that she hurries to the door at once and pulls it open. _Risking looking overeager in the process,_ she thinks, gloomily.

“Hermione,” Harry says as soon as she lets him inside, and the look on his face is so earnest that Hermione can barely suppress a laugh. “Hermione, we never meant for you to find out like that—we should have told you before—”

“Yeah,” Ron says, nodding, though he’s been keeping his distance from Hermione as if afraid she’s going to jinx him. Which is ridiculous. She doesn’t do that sort of thing anymore. Not much, anyway. “We’re really sorry if we shocked you—uh—or if we might have...offended you.”

It’s more a question than an apology. Hermione stares at Ron, then Harry.

“You think I’m disgusted with you because you’re gay?” she demands. “I thought you knew me better than that!”

“Well, that’s part of it,” Harry says, slowly, “though Ron’s bi, actually.” Ron elbows him in the side. “It’s just...we thought...the fact that it’s _us_ , and that we didn’t tell you. More than the gay thing.”

“It doesn’t make a difference to me,” Hermione says, and in her defense, it’s more than half-true. “You two can be with whomever you want, including each other.”

“Yeah?” Ron asks.

“Yeah,” Hermione says. “I’m fine, honestly. I don’t care if you’re shagging each other—you _are_ shagging each other, right?” Just to be clear. She suspects that maybe she should have realized this before now—Harry and Ron have always been close.

“Er, yeah,” Ron says sheepishly, and Harry grins at him. There’s so much in that one smile—so much affection and true happiness and how _can’t_ Hermione have realized this sooner, the two of them are bloody perfect for each other—that she feels a sudden, sharp pang of jealousy like nothing she’s ever experienced before.

“Well, good for you,” Hermione says. “Really, that’s great,” and despite their insistence that she should come over for dinner, she pushes them out onto her front steps and closes the door firmly behind them.

\---

She Floos Luna that night.

She’s on her knees in her living room, her head in the fireplace as green flames flicker at the edges of her vision, and she’s looking into the first floor of the Lovegood’s disheveled house. Supports hold up the rickety staircase, and half of the wall on the other side of the room has been sloppily boarded up for the time being. Luna had come back to live with her father after the war and has been helping him rebuild his house after the Erumpet horn incident ever since. It looks as if it’s been quite the project. Apparently magical attempts to rebuild the house have been ineffective against the magic of the horn, as well—or the Lovegoods simply want to do it by hand, which Hermione wouldn’t put past them.

“Um,” Hermione says eloquently into the empty room. She clears her throat. “Hello? Excuse me?”

It’s Luna who comes down the stairs to answer the Floo call. She looks different than Hermione remembers—taller, maybe, or simply older after all that happened in the war. The clasp holding her long braid in place is adorned with blue and gold phoenix feathers.

“Oh!” she says when she sees Hermione kneeling in her fireplace. “Hermione—it’s been ages, hasn’t it? Is there something you need? An important question you need answered?”

“Er, no,” Hermione says. “I mean, yes, actually.”

“I thought so,” says Luna. “You had that look in your eye.” Before Hermione can ask _what_ look, exactly, Luna is pulling Hermione out of the fireplace. “There we are,” she says with a smile. Her hands are smooth and small in Hermione’s. “Do you have time to sit down? Rest your feet? It isn’t good to stand for too long. Soon enough you forget how to do anything else.”

“Right,” says Hermione. “That.” Suddenly, coming to see Luna seems like a terrible idea.

Luna’s sea-gray eyes meet Hermione’s. “You’re thinking too hard,” Luna says. “You’re always thinking too hard.” She leads Hermione to a chair and pushes her into it.

“I really shouldn’t,” Hermione says, shaking her head. “I feel awful for coming over and intruding in your home—I can go and return another time—”

“You aren’t intruding,” Luna says. She pushes her golden hair behind her ear. “I always make time for my friends.”

And Hermione remembers the painting on Luna’s ceiling, so painstakingly done— _friends, friends, friends_ —and flushes. When has she ever acted like a true friend to Luna? Never, unless it suited her own purposes.

“I was thinking,” she says, suddenly unable to stop herself, “that we should hang out some time. Do something together.” The way Luna is looking at her makes Hermione wonder whether Luna actually _can_ see right through her or if she’s just an expert at making it appear that way. “That is, if you want to,” Hermione adds. She’s staring at her shoes now. This has been such a horrible idea. “If you don’t, I’d understand. I mean—”

But Luna is smiling now, and she says, “Oh, I’d love to, Hermione,” and Hermione thinks she shouldn’t be as relieved as she is to hear it.

\---

After hearing Luna’s suggestions on what they should do (she’s _still_ looking for those damned Crumple-Horned Snorcacks? Honestly—), Hermione interrupts with the suggestion that they just spend some time in Diagon Alley wandering around and looking at the shops. Hermione winces even as she says it—has she _always_ been this boring? How had she never noticed?—but Luna smiles graciously and says she thinks it’s a lovely idea, so they agree to meet that Saturday morning at the Leaky Cauldron.

Hermione spends Friday night and Saturday morning before she leaves wondering what she should wear. She thinks this is probably ridiculous—considering this is _Luna_ she’s meeting, after all; anything she wears will look normal in comparison—but she’d never had to worry about this sort of thing with Harry and Ron.

She Disapparates to the Leaky Cauldron at eleven Saturday morning and waits for a few minutes for Luna to arrive. Why is she doing this, again?

Luna walks in the doors fifteen minutes after Hermione arrived. “Shall we?” she asks when she approaches, and together they enter Diagon Alley.

It’s a nice day, overall, even considering Luna’s insistence that the wispy clouds above are Floating Iris-Winged fish, despite all Hermione’s arguing to the contrary. Luna’s as infuriating as ever, but somehow it doesn’t irritate Hermione in the same ways it once did—indeed it rather fascinates and intrigues her more than anything else.

“But where are the facts?” Hermione says when they’re eating in the small cafe where Florean Fortescue’s ice cream parlor used to be. “Where’s the _proof?”_

“There is none, yet,” Luna says, and she licks a bit of dressing off her finger. “But there’s no proof to the contrary, either.”

“Then where’s the evidence leading to this conclusion? There’s absolutely nothing that could reasonably lead to your hypothesis—”

“Yes there is,” Luna says. “There’s evidence everywhere you look. People interpret things in different ways and in doing so arrive at different conclusions. Simply because I see things differently doesn’t mean I’m seeing them wrong. Maybe you’re the one who’s wrong.”

“But how can you believe these things are true? Just like that?”

“You, Hermione,” Luna says, looking down at her food and taking an appreciative bite, “view the world and its mysteries as impossible unless proven otherwise. I much rather prefer to think of them as true—or at least _possible_ —until proven otherwise.”

“I don’t understand,” Hermione says, and now she’s truly frustrated for the first time.

“I know you don’t,” Luna says. “That’s all right.”

The rest of the day is mostly argument-free, but Hermione can’t stop thinking about the things Luna had said after they part and she returns to her apartment—can’t stop replaying the debate over in her mind and wondering who had had the upper hand, because she’s quite sure it wasn’t herself.

\---

They spend their next few meetings in much the same way until one day Luna shows up at Hermione’s apartment unannounced and says, apropos of nothing, “I want you to read something I’ve written.”

“Written? What for?”

“For _The Quibbler_ ,” Luna says, as if it should be obvious, and with a feeling of foreboding, Hermione takes the thin stack of handwritten pages from Luna and nods, agreeing to read the article.

“Could you perhaps read it now? I wanted to discuss it with you.”

“Why?”

“I think your opinion on the piece would be invaluable,” Luna says. “Opposing or at least different viewpoints often lead to thought-provoking discussion, and these sorts of topics need to be discussed these days, especially after the war and the way the Ministry is trying to downplay the severity of some of the opinions held then and still held now, despite the corruptive and poisonous behaviors that those ways of thinking reinforce and sustain—”

“All right,” Hermione says quickly, clearly interrupting a line of thought that Luna has spent a great deal of time pondering. “Come into the kitchen and we’ll sit down while I read this.”

The article is titled _Magic and Muggle Relations: The Perpetuation of Muggle Phobia and How It Negatively Affects Both Societies_. It discusses the treatment of Muggles in recent years, using the Death Eaters as an obvious starting point and then moving to a more in-depth discussion of everyday wizards who patronize and treat Muggles like children, thus contributing to the misunderstandings and increased disdain for Muggles (and to the abominable treatment of Squibs). The article maintains that Muggles are clearly capable of flourishing without magic, and therefore acting as if their contributions to society are somehow inferior to wizarding society’s contributions can lead only to a further estrangement between the two peoples, which some wizards might view as favorable but in reality will only lead to an increase of the same secrecy, fear, and hatred that wizards and Muggles alike have struggled to deal with for centuries.

Hermione is speechless when she finishes the article twenty minutes later. Luna has spent this time waiting patiently, seemingly unperturbed to have Hermione reading and possibly criticizing her work right in front of her.

“Luna, this is brilliant,” Hermione says, and she means it. “What gave you the idea to write this?”

“Talking with Dean in Malfoy Manor,” Luna says. “He’s Muggleborn, you know, and he never outright said any of these things, but he got me thinking about them. I wasn’t sure if it was any good, though, so I thought if you read it—because you’re Muggleborn, too, but much smarter and more perceptive than Dean, if you’ll forgive my saying so. If I’d handed him this to read he’d have stopped after the third paragraph.”

Hermione smiles thinly. “Maybe, maybe not,” she says, but mostly she’s staring at Luna as if she’s never seen her before in her life. She’s always known that Luna must be smart—she’s a Ravenclaw, after all—but she’s never really _understood_ that fact. But Luna’s writing is brilliant—concise and brutal where it needs to be, but never sensational or exaggerated to try and catch the reader’s attention. It stands on the basis of its own merit and that of the intelligent thinking that preceded the writing.

“You’re publishing this in _The Quibbler?”_ Hermione asks, finally. It seems a shame that the article might not get the recognition it deserves.

“I thought I would,” Luna says, reaching over and taking the article back. “Daddy said he’d put it in the next issue.”

“Oh,” Hermione says. “Okay.” Luna leaves soon after with a smile and a little wave, and as Hermione watches her go she can’t help but wonder how she’d misunderstood Luna for all these years.

\---

Harry and Ron try to get her to come over again that weekend. “Come on, Hermione,” Ron says in the same voice he’d always used when trying to get Hermione to help him with his homework. “It’s been ages since we saw you! Don’t you miss us?”

“Of course I do,” Hermione says, moving around her small kitchen making the two of them tea, “but I have plans this weekend—”

“Plans?” Harry asks. “A date?” For some reason, he glances at Ron. He always glances at Ron when talking about Hermione’s love life. It’s been more than a year and a half since she and Ron split, and Hermione wishes everyone would just move on—no one acted this way when Harry and Ginny had broken up, and everyone had thought they were the perfect couple. But then again, perhaps Harry is just wondering whether he can finally have Ron all to himself without needing to feel guilty about Hermione’s feelings. Hermione’s resentment fades a bit when she hits upon this thought. Harry’s always so damn noble. She doesn’t want him to agonize about being with Ron because of her.

“Kind of,” she says, just because it’s Harry and he’s her best friend and she wants him to be happy. That’s all.

“Who is he?” Ron demands, as protective as always. “I need a name and a full background check.”

“Oh, bugger off, Ron,” Harry says. Hermione just smiles, as if she holds some terribly intriguing secret.

“Won’t you tell us who he is, Hermione?” Ron asks, leaning forward to take a cup of tea from her when she hands it to him.

“Or she,” Harry says, firmly. “Wouldn’t want to make assumptions.”

Hermione chokes on her tea, but neither Ron nor Harry notices.

“When has she ever shown the slightest interest in girls?” Ron asks.

“When had _we_ ever shown the slightest interest in guys?”

“Touché,” Ron says. “Go on then, Hermione, who’s your date?”

“You don’t know him,” Hermione asks, and as Harry and Ron pester her for more information she wonders why she feels so guilty for not telling them the truth.

\---

That weekend, Hermione introduces Luna to the television set and Muggle movies, of which wizards have no magical equivalent. Hermione has always thought that strange and rather sad. Luna agrees with her.

“This is wonderful,” Luna says, gazing intently at the television screen. “It’s like watching a book.” And she falls silent as the film starts, devoting all her attention to it. It’s a romantic comedy. Hermione has no idea why she chose it—not that she regards romantic comedies as mundane drivel, but they’ve just never interested her. (All right, she does think that sometimes.) She spends about half her time watching the movie and the rest letting her gaze wander idly, falling to rest more often than not on Luna’s rapt and keen expression. Luna’s hair curls gently around her face, and her large eyes shine from the reflected light of the television. Her mouth twists with laughter when the movie becomes suddenly funny (Hermione misses the joke) and downturns wryly at the predictable, sugar-sweet ending.

“That was very good,” Luna says when it’s over. “Are all films like that? I mean, are they all about that sort of thing?”

“No,” Hermione says, taking out the movie and setting it aside. “Movies can be about anything. Some are more action-oriented, some are dramas, a few are science fiction or fantasy—Muggle ideas about magic.”

“Fascinating,” Luna says, and she sounds as if she means it.

“You know,” Hermione says, her mind not really on the subject of movies at all, “Harry and Ron came over a few days ago and asked if I was doing anything today.”

Luna watches her, waiting for the explanation that will certainly come.

“I told them I had a date,” Hermione says, and she’s not really sure why.

“Did you?” Luna’s smiling. “I didn’t know that’s what you thought this was.”

“I don’t think that–I mean–I was just trying to throw them off.”

“I see,” Luna says, and pauses. “Who did you tell them you were seeing?”

It’s unfair that Luna should be so perceptive, it honestly is. “I said they didn’t know him,” Hermione says, and looks away.

They sit in silence for a while. Hermione plucks at the fraying arm of her couch. Then Luna asks, “Are you embarrassed to tell them about me?”

“It’s not like that.”

“I’d understand, you know. People have always acted like it’s some sort of crime to be friends with me. I make them uncomfortable. I can tell you’re uncomfortable right now.”

“I am, but not because of—it isn’t—it’s just—we’re not _dating_ ,” Hermione says, struggling to find the words for what she wants to say.

“I never said we were,” Luna said. “You’re the one who told them we had a date.”

“I didn’t—that’s not what I meant!” Hermione says.

“Do you know for sure?” Luna says.

“Yes, I do! I’m not gay!”

“Neither am I,” Luna says, and she kisses her.

Hermione freezes, unable to understand what is happening—and then, as if she can’t control them, her hands weave into Luna’s hair and pull her closer. Her thumbs brush against Luna’s jawline, touching soft skin. Her mouth opens slightly to let Luna’s teeth nip at her lower lip, and she feels Luna’s tongue flick at the corner of her mouth—

Hermione pulls away, her breath coming in short bursts. She can’t look at Luna. “I’m not gay,” she tells her.

“I’d say your beloved evidence points to the contrary,” Luna says, and for the first time since Hermione has known her, she sounds angry.

“I’m not, though,” Hermione says, weakly. “I’m not—I’m straight—”

“First of all,” Luna says, getting to her feet, “those aren’t your only two options. Second of all, why do you have to be either of them? You’re _you_ , Hermione, and you can kiss whoever you like, and not because other people call you straight or gay.”

“But—I don’t—”

“You kissed me back,” Luna insists. “I don’t know what conclusion that leads _you_ to, but I know where it leads me.”

She waits, silently, for Hermione to speak. Her blue eyes are dark in the dimly lit room. Hermione knows what she says next is important—terribly important, and that saying the wrong thing could ruin things forever, but for once in her life, she has no idea what the right answer is.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” she says, after a moment, her voice shaky. “It doesn’t mean anything at all.”

“You really think that?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m afraid we find ourselves disagreeing once again,” Luna says. “Goodbye, Hermione.”

And she’s gone, the front door closing behind her. Hermione can still feel her lips on her mouth, her gentle fingertips at the nape of her neck and the small of her back.

\---

“Let me get this straight,” Ron says the next day. They’re sitting in his and Harry’s apartment, and he has his legs stretched out over Harry’s lap. “ _You’re_ coming to _us_ for romantic advice?”

“No,” Hermione says, stubbornly. “I just need to talk to you about—about—”

“Your date last night,” Ron says. “Don’t deny it.”

“Fine,” Hermione snaps. “Go ahead and have a good laugh. I’ll still be here when you’ve finished.”

“We’re _not_ laughing,” Harry says when Ron looks as if he’s about to take Hermione up on it. “We’re just surprised you’ve come to us, is all. Maybe for once we’ll be able to pay you back for all your advice over the years.”

“You got together with each other just fine without me,” Hermione says. “Didn’t need me to tell you how to do that.”

Harry looks bewildered by the bitterness in Hermione’s voice, but Ron shakes his head and says, “We had to learn sometime. You helped us learn how to realize things on our own.”

“Sure,” Hermione says, tears stinging at her eyes and she has no idea why. “Can we just get this over with? I don’t even know how to start—”

“Telling us who you’re seeing would be a good place,” Ron says.

“I’m not _seeing_ anyone,” Hermione says. She pauses, worrying at her lower lip. She has to do this. “I—I’ve been trying to—I’ve been spending a lot of time with a friend recently. A friend who’s brilliant and perceptive and gorgeous and who challenges me and writes articles about magic-Muggle relations that are just _amazingly_ ingenious and profound—”

“And so naturally you’re completely head over heels for him,” Harry says, dryly.

“I’m _not_ ,” Hermione insists.

“You are,” Ron says, sounding very amused. “It’s impossible to resist those essays about magic-Muggle relations. Completely understandable.”

“It’s not like that,” Hermione says. “It’s just—things sort of happened, and...we kissed last night, but I—”

“That doesn’t sound like a problem to me,” Ron says. “Sounds like exactly what you wanted.”

“It’s just— _she_ kissed me,” Hermione says, quietly. “Luna.”

Ron and Harry stare at her, dumbstruck.

“Luna kissed you?” Harry asks.

 _“Lovegood?”_ asks Ron, his mouth hanging open.

“I...yes,” Hermione says, and she looks down at her hands. “But I don’t know what to do. I’m not—I don’t—I’m worried I’ve upset her and I don’t know if she’ll ever talk to me again or forgive me for what I—”

“She kissed you?” Harry asks. He pauses, his brow furrowing, then: “Did you like it?”

“I don’t know! I’m not gay!”

“Hermione,” Harry says, and for the first time in her life Hermione sees her trademark exasperated expression from the outside—coming from Harry, for once, and directed towards her. “That’s just a label. Labels exist so society can put everyone into neat little boxes and say ‘this is who you are.’ Not that labels don’t have their purposes—they work for some people and that’s fine, Ron and I included. I’m gay as a rainbow, and I don’t give fuck-all about it—but sometimes there’s just no label that _fits_ someone, and forcing yourself to plaster one on to please society just isn’t worth the trouble.”

Hermione stares at him. So does Ron. “That’s the smartest thing I’ve ever heard you say, mate,” Ron says.

“You can be impressed with me later,” Harry says, “preferably later tonight. Anyway, Hermione, I don’t know if that’s what the situation is for you, and maybe you _should_ spend a little time seriously considering whether or not you do actually like girls, because it sounds to me—Merlin knows how—that you and Luna have been getting on extremely well and that you like her a lot more than you want to admit.”

Hermione puts her hand to her forehead and leans into it. “I’m scared to,” she says. “Admit it.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not the person I thought I was anymore?”

“Hermione,” Harry groans. “You’re exactly the same as you’ve always been. This isn’t going to change that. Hell, maybe you’re more you now than you were before.”

Hermione shakes her head, unable to look at him. “I hate it when you’re right,” she says, shakily.

“Because it means you’re wrong?” Harry grins at her. She gets to her feet and hugs him tightly, thinking that perhaps things between her and Harry and Ron aren’t so bad after all.

\---

Hermione stands on the doorstep to Luna and her father’s house, her heart pounding in her throat, and wonders if she has the courage to do this. Without giving herself time to talk herself out of it, she lifts her hand and knocks three times on the door.

It’s Luna who answers. “Is there something you need, Hermione?” she asks, sounding as pleasant as ever, but there’s a touch of bitterness underlying her words.

“Can I come in?” Hermione asks. Luna doesn’t respond at once, but after a few moments she steps aside and allows Hermione to walk past her into the house. Hermione looks around, trying to put off what she needs to say next. There’s stacks of _The Quibble_ _r_ scattered around the room—the new edition, Hermione expects, and she’s proven correct when she picks up one and sees Luna’s headline across the front cover. Luna says nothing as Hermione looks at the magazine, waiting for her to speak.

“I want you to read something I’ve written,” Hermione says. She bites her lip and holds out the thin, folded piece of paper. “I—well, originally I wanted to write a follow-up to your article” —she gestures at the magazines— “but it was turning out horribly, so I only have this instead.”

Luna takes the paper from her, unfolds it. It says nothing more than two simple words: _I’m sorry._

“I was wondering if you would forgive me,” Hermione says, her cheeks turning pink. Luna is staring at the slip of paper in her hands, silent. Hermione grows more nervous as time continues to pass.

“Luna,” she says, and when Luna looks up, Hermione leans up and kisses her, pressing her lips gently against Luna’s mouth and putting her hands on Luna’s shoulders, her fingertips brushing against her collarbones.

“I certainly hope we’re drawing the same conclusions this time,” Luna mumbles into Hermione’s hair when the kiss breaks. Her hands are clutching at Hermione’s shoulders as if she wants to let go but can’t bear to think of doing so.

“Oh, I think we are,” Hermione says, and Luna smiles, bright and happy.

“You’re forgiven, then,” she says, slipping her hand into Hermione’s. “What was that you mentioned about a follow-up article?”


End file.
